Each weekday on this blog you will find an episode of a western short story featuring Rance Dehner, a detective who operates in the old West. When the story concludes, it will be archived for those readers who prefer to read a story from start to finish.

Friday, January 20, 2012

“There’s somethin’ you can do, all right!
Come back here tomorrow night when I’ll be good and liquored up! Push me in
front of the danged train!”

“Wyatt, don’t talk like that! Look, I don’t know exactly what has happened
since I’ve…been gone. But I got a letter from Adrian Monahan, the owner of the
stage line promising me--”

Wyatt Cummings began to laugh
hysterically. “Maybe we both should jump in front of the train.” Cummings
continued his harsh laugh. “When did you get this here letter?”

“About three weeks ago.”

“Is that so?” Sobs mixed in with
Wyatt’s laughter. “Well, Mr. Adrian Monahan has been dead for over two years.
He shot hisself in the head.”

Episode Two

***

Bart left
Wyatt Cummings and began to walk toward the Monahan residence. “The Monahan
Residence.” He whispered those words, wondering for the first time about their
uniqueness. In the town of Jameson, most people lived in a house, but the
Monahans dwelled in a residence.

As he
approached the grand old structure, he was reminded why. The house stood at
three stories in the middle of a wide grassy lot. As a little boy, Bart had
thought the house was a palace. As he got older, the Monahan Residence held his
interest in a different way. There were stories about ghosts and strange cries
coming from the house late at night.

McRae tried
to laugh at those memories, but couldn’t. Ghost tales still made him shudder.
He undid the hinge on the ornate picket face in front of the house. The fence
was there for decoration, but even in the scant light he could see the flaking
paint. The yard appeared unattended. When he got to the house, Bart was greeted
by creeks on the stairs leading up to the porch. Once again, McRae had the
feeling that something was very wrong. Adrian Monahan had always maintained a
well cared for home.

But then,
according to Wyatt Cummings, Adrian Monahan was dead. That was impossible! He
had a letter from Adrian in his valise instructing him to come to this residence
as soon as he was released from prison. Wyatt’s ramblings about Adrian Monahan
killing himself must have come from a bottle.

Bart pulled
on the cord beside the front door and heard the chimes sounding from inside.
The time had to be well past nine, but the letter had explained the fastest way
to get to Jameson from the territorial prison. He was expected.

Or was he?
There was no answer to his ringing. The second time, he pulled harder on the
cord, as if that action would bring more satisfactory results.

Not until
the third yank did Bart hear footsteps rattling from inside. The door opened
and a man with a very familiar sneer stood directly in front of him. “Well,
well, the prodigal returns. The Good Book says we’re all brothers, should I
have run out and greeted you?”

“That was
the father who ran out to greet the prodigal, Jesse.”

Jesse
Monahan’s sneer became a laugh. “Find religion while you were in jail?”

“I had
plenty of time to read.”

“Guess you
did at that.” Jesse Monahan was a dark haired man, handsome in a boyish manner.
He was well dressed and carrying a deck of cards in his right hand. Appropriate
enough; Jesse Monahan was a professional gambler. “Come in.”

As Bart
entered, Jesse closed the door. “Follow me and I’ll show you something
extraordinary.” The two men walked down a long, wide corridor and entered a
study. Jesse sat behind a desk and pointed at the cards laid out in front of
him. “Solitaire. It’s the only game at which I don’t cheat.”

Bart took
off his hat and exposed rust colored, shaggy hair. He approached the one chair
in front of the desk, then stopped abruptly. A black cat was lying on it. The
animal took one look at the new arrival, jumped off the chair, walked around
the desk and curled up on the floor in front of a large safe. Bart felt
relieved. The black cat had not stepped in front of him.

Jesse
didn’t seem to notice his guest’s discomfort with the animal. He continued to
concentrate on the cards which were in the middle of the desk, framed by a
stack of letters, a letter opener, and business papers. “As I recall, you never
cheated at cards, Bart. You never seemed to win, either.”

McRae was
now facing Jesse Monahan in the same room and in the same chair that he had
faced Adrian Monahan in four years before. For reasons he couldn’t understand,
that fact made him angry. “You were cheating in that poker game four years
back, Jesse, and you still lost. Lost even more money than I did.”

“Yes,
that’s correct.” Jesse spoke as he looked over the cards in front of him. “Ted
Bogan cleaned us both out.”

“Maybe so,
but you were the one who attacked Bogan from a dark alley while he was walking
home.”

Jesse put a
card down. His concentration seemed to be entirely on the game. “Poor Ted cried
out and you came running to the rescue.”

“I stopped
you from beating the man to death! But Bogan never saw who attacked him. When
the sheriff arrived, both of us were standing over Bogan’s unconscious body.”

“Sheriff
Buford Miley,” Jesse chuckled as he looked up from his cards. “He’s still the
upholder of law and order around here, gullible as ever.”

“Miley
believed me when I changed my story and said I had attacked Ted…”

“As I
recall, you were well paid for playing out the little charade.”

Bart McRae
sprung up from his chair and stood over Jesse. “I wasn’t paid anything up
front. I was promised five thousand dollars and a good job with the stage coach
line if I’d plead guilty and go to jail for you.”

The sneer
returned to Jesse’s face. “Uncle Adrian always knew how to strike a good deal.
He rescued the family name by promising you great riches in the future. It was
a lot cheaper than buying off a jury.”

“I want
what’s coming to me, Jesse!”

“There are
a few problems there, Bart.” Jesse opened the right hand drawer of his desk
part way. The handle of a gun was clearly visible. “There is no stage coach
line for you to work for.”

The Posse

Follow by Email

Bio

As a kid, I idolized Hopalong Cassidy, which was the most intelligent choice I made during my first thirty years. Much of my professional life has been spent as a literary agent, but I also wrote westerns to prove I didn’t always have to live off the work of other people.
I can now devote myself full time to writing in a genre I love. I’m being a straight shooter when I say your opinion is important to me. When you have a moment, let me know what you think about Wild West Detective. Alas, the western genre has been riding over some tough territory for several decades. I hope this site can bring new folks into the corral and give them a taste of the fun that the western has given me.
jamesclay20@gmail.com